Is it that iridescent blue at the margins
the same hue as a steelhead's lateral line
fresh from the salt
or the rain running down the street
when the light is properly bent by a good pair of polaroids ?
Is it the inability to see them in the gin clear water
lurking there amongst the bending dead bullrush
the same as a frozen woodcock before the dogs
only visible at the flush ?
Is it the sublime take of the fly
wet, sunken, unseen, unfelt
the same as a buck materializing in the thicket
requiring instant reaction to snugly hook up ?
Is it the quiet paddle in the wide open liquid realm
many long months missed and yearned for
the same as the sound of a lover's voice
her caress so calm and safe ?
Though only a simple outing
with a cooperative quarry
and a break in the weather
it is all of this together